


Helix

by felldownthelist



Series: Attachment Theory [1]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Eating Disorders, Family, Gen, Nominative Determinism, Post-Season/Series 01, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 18:34:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20314093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felldownthelist/pseuds/felldownthelist
Summary: Vanya doesn’t kick his ass like he’s expecting.Instead, she kills Dad.And Pogo.Again.Well. After everything else this week, Luther’s not stupid enough to argue about any of it.





	Helix

**Author's Note:**

> My eating disorder has been kicking my fucking ass this past couple months. So I uh. Decided to take it out on Luther.
> 
> If you are a bit like me on this front then heads up; I've avoided too much of the specifics on weights, calories and numbers (I still fucking know exactly what they are, URGH) but this is anorexia nervosa, straight up, and also maybe a spoiler if anybody ever even reads this but it's not going to get magically fixed any time soon, because those stories are stupid. Nobody else has ever read this because I have no friends, and there are probably a ton of mistakes.

Luther wakes up from a dream where he is watching a ship. The ship is made of bread. Vanya and Diego stand at the helm, looking down at him judgmentally.

Luther wakes up hungry.

He goes straight to the gym.

Five took them back in time. Not just a week, or a month; by the appearance of his siblings, Luther had known straight away that Five had taken them back over a decade. Luther came to for a second time on the floor of what he recognized as the attic at the Academy; Vanya’s body still slumped over him. She’d stirred as they all come to their feet and got their bearings.

“Oh shit,” Klaus had said, looking around.

“Oh, shit,” Diego had said, face dreadful.

“Oh my God,” Allison had said, hands up at her throat, and,

“Well, I didn’t have time to be more exact,” Five had contributed, and then passed out.

It was anti-climatic as hell, until Vanya woke up.

NOW, NOT IN REAL TIME.

Vanya doesn’t kick his ass like he’s expecting.

Instead, she kills Dad.

And Pogo.

Again.

Well. After everything else this week, Luther’s not stupid enough to argue about any of it.

Mom helps them dispose of the evidence.

And then it’s just… a bunch of kids. Who have to… live their lives.

AND SO, BACK TO HIS LIFE; AS IT WAS.

Being seventeen or so again had come with some distinct advantages, for him, although, he realized early on, this wasn’t so much the case for his other siblings.

Diego was jittery, which he didn’t used to be, Luther was sure. Five was present, which he definitely didn’t used to be. Ben was still dead; for some reason that rankled Luther and that he didn’t like to dwell on overmuch.

Vanya was an absolute unknowable force, who was at the time still confusing him by not kicking his ass.

Klaus lasted around a week at age seventeen before having a bit of a breakdown in the main foyer of the Academy, clutching at his head and saying, very loudly, “this is so shit, this is so shit, why the fucking hell are we back in this fucking shitty house of shit, _will you all shut the fuck up_,” even though nobody was talking.

Luther had wanted to firmly tell him to can it, almost more than he wanted to help. He was having a realization about his capacity to be helpful in these situations at this point though and, lest Klaus blew up the moon or killed Mom or something, he kept his mouth shut.

Diego was there in a flash anyway, getting right up in his face and saying, “do you think _I_ want to be here, moron? Come on, look at me,” and Klaus had practically growled at him, and Diego had rolled his eyes and said, “look, come on, I’ll put my hands over your ears if you want,” which had made no sense, really, at the time, but Diego had wanted to play along or whatever. So.

Luther remembers; Diego’s hands hovered around Klaus’ head, while Klaus blinked. He grabbed Diego’s wrists and then settled them around his ears. After a moment he screwed his eyes shut. Diego just stood there. Luther stared.

BACK THEN.

“Take a picture,” comes a sardonic tone to his left. “It’ll last longer.” The tone isn’t unkind, but he gets the message.

“I’m not,” Luther cuts himself off. Thinks. “I don’t understand what’s happening,” he says.

“Ah,” Five tells him, as Klaus, moving Diego’s hands, says,

“I can _not_ stay here Diego,”

“That’s probably hereditary. I always struggled with people like that. Took a long time to figure out the little nuances,” Five continues, and Diego says,

“No, me either, come on, get your stuff,”

“All the illogical crap, the lies, the strange ways of interpreting each other. I don’t think we’re on the autistic spectrum, per se, but I can definitely relate.” Luther tries to take that in.

Klaus says, “Oh thank God, you better not be kidding, I am going to lose my shit if you’re not serious,”

“Autistic spectrum?” Luther says, frowns.

“Let’s blow this hellhole,” Diego is saying, and touching Klaus’ head still with both hands, and then Five explains that he thinks that Myers-Briggs personality theory is actually more useful for them, and Klaus and Diego have left the foyer.

“By the way,” Five says, conversationally, “don’t think I haven’t noticed that Vanya hasn’t kicked your ass for that stunt with the anechoic chamber.” He looks Luther up and down. “I’d stay on my toes,” he says, and looks at Luther for a moment longer.

Then he’s gone, too, and that’s how Luther ends up living at home, thirteen years ago except it’s not, it’s now; without Dad, Pogo, Diego or Klaus and wondering what the heck he’s supposed to be doing this time around.

Also. “Hereditary?” He queries, aloud, to nobody.

IN THE BEGINNING:

Sometimes he looks back and thinks about the start of his problems. And then he doesn’t know where to stop looking. It goes back. And back. And back.

He was seventeen for the first time when Allison had said, “looking good,” offhand, as he walked the halls in a short sleeved shirt. He hadn’t bothered to wear one forever, this time around, unable to stand the sight of himself. This time around, he’s seventeen for the second time; and it still feels like the first time he can recall anybody saying anything like that.

“… Thanks,” he returned, because that’s how he was supposed to reply.

“Have you ever been to LA?” She asked, then; something of a non sequitur.

“No,” Luther told her.

“Would you want to?”

“What for?” He asked.

“I have an audition in three days,” Allison said. “I only know because I was re-reading my own stack of mail.”

“Oh,” is all Luther could think of to say. “Oh,” he tried, again, peppier, because he needed to be supportive. “Good luck.”

“Well that’s it,” Allison said, “I was thinking… maybe you’d want to come with me?”

“Is that what you want?” He had asked, immediately, and Allison frowned, said,

“I just thought you might want to get out of this house,” and Luther didn’t really understand so much what she meant. It had actually been kind of comforting being back. Being young. Even with the whole… burying Dad and Pogo shenanigans. He didn’t think on that too much.

“I’m okay here,” Luther said, thinking about creating a routine again. The thought of disrupting it so close to it’s inception made him vaguely uncomfortable.

“Oh,” said Allison, looking strangely confused. “I.” She stopped. Looked at him. “That’s okay,” she said. “That’s okay. I’ll only be gone for a few days.”

“Sure,” Luther returned, thinking about how she’d ace it. “Have fun in LA.”

“Thanks,” she’d said, looking at him contemplatively. She stepped forward, looked like she wanted to say something else. Instead, she put a hand on his arm. “Take care of yourself,” she told him.

NOT QUITE, BACK THEN.

He can do that; take care of himself.

His body feels so good that it feels practically like new. He feels like he can breathe, the band around his chest gone, the weight, the tightness of the skin, the need to constantly wear covering clothing and the way it always just barely fit.

Luther works out like it’s his religion, pays attention to each muscle group he cycles through, not wanting to be remiss on any part of his body; this feeling that he’s _missed_ more than he can attest to.

Five catches him in the Academy gym.

“What are you training for?” He asks, when Luther’s testing his max strict muscle-ups. Five doesn’t mean to interrupt a set, he knows; so he drops down from the bar and makes a pencil note in the pad he’s taken to recording times and reps in.  
  
“Nothing,” he says, honestly, checking his hands for rips in the skin. Luckily there are none. He guesses he’d been doing this long enough at this age that his palms are tough and durable enough. 

“I understand,” Five says. Luther looks at him, not expecting that response. “I’m still measuring out probabilities for an apocalypse that isn’t happening,” Five adds. “Vanya says I’m obsessed.”

Five adores Vanya, Luther thinks, kind of glad for it. More so this time they’re teenagers than the last. It’s good for them both. “I’m not obsessed,” Five finishes. “I’m just not used to being able to do anything else.”

Luther understands that, he thinks. Five makes so much sense, sometimes. “The routine.” He nods. “I get it. This is keeping me sane.” He doesn’t know why he confesses that so readily, or why the words he ends up using take him by surprise. “Uh,” he says. “I mean. You never know what’s coming.”

“Do you want to spar some time?” Five asks, looking genuine.

“Oh,” Luther says, “sure.” That sounds… like fun. More fun than sparring with Diego at any rate.

“Cool,” Five says. “I’ll let you get back to it.”

He can’t beat his adult rep max count. Luther is perturbed.

IN SAD, OLD NEWS:

The fridge was full of useless things like condiments and orange juice. Luther thought he needed high protein foods to get his amino acids up and at ‘em. Muscular micro tears don’t heal themselves. He thought he needed to get stronger.

“Hello dear,” said a voice he’d known most of his life. “Are you looking for something?”

“Mom,” he greeted, and explained his predicament.

Grace, being the perfect Mom she is, made him a bacon and avocado scramble with toast on the side.

“For my growing boy,” she told him, which, in retrospect should have been a warning, but Luther had been trying to be less suspicious of everyone and everything and just went with what he was told.

Allison left for LA, and, Luther was not entirely surprised to learn, she took Vanya with her. But.

Allison left. Luther tried not to think about what that meant to him now.

Vanya would probably have a lot of fun with her. Five was going to miss her, he thought. He wondered about what he could do to help with that gap.

He was thinking on it whilst eating another Mom breakfast special when he noticed the sensation of his shirt sticking to his middle. It reminded him, suddenly, viscerally of being back in that stupid massive overcoat and he hated it so much that he sucked his stomach in so that the sensation died away.

As solutions to his problems went it was kind of easy, and he felt immediately better.

Luther left half of his breakfast on a whim and then spent the day moving experimentally. He didn’t own much in the way of loose clothing to work with, but this only made the relief where his skin was given space more noticeable. He skipped out on the other meals he would usually have had because he wanted his stomach to stay concave. That was strangely easy. It actually felt so good. Nothing touching him. Skin free to just exist, not strain, not pull.

And it was, finally, a decision he made for himself, and he would never have thought he could get through a day on just half of breakfast, but he could. He’d always been good with tasks like that once his mind was set.

If Luther dwells, he can pinpoint the exact day that the switch really flipped. He can think and be right there, to the moment that led to his raiding the fridge, a few months later, so, fucking, hungry, going to eat a carrot, because that seemed safe, normal, fine, known – and being somehow unable to put anything into his mouth.

A BAD AFTERNOON.

Diego and Klaus have left, Allison and Vanya are in LA. Five stays indoors most of the day, and Luther doesn’t want to push him to do otherwise if he doesn’t feel like it. Today, Five told him to meet him in Dad’s study at dinner time or so. Luther is killing time raking leaves.

Fall has left the driveway covered. The gardens are full of neglected plants; the garage has vines growing all over it. He should ask Mom who to call when he gets a moment, or, rather, when he finds the energy. The tasks about the house are piling up rather rapidly; Mom only does what she’s programmed to do.

The leaves are everywhere. He rounds the side of the brick to check the access route to the kitchen and notes the build up there as well.

Luther stares at a gap. Brick wall and Rolls Royce, one that hasn’t been moved in a while now; parked up, innocent, guileless. Leaves everywhere in between.

He looks at the gap with the leaves.

He needs to sweep the gap.

There is no way he is going to fit through there.

This isn’t supposed to happen to him any more. He’s left that god-awful body behind; in the future or past or whatever. This isn’t supposed to happen to him any more, but all he can think of are the times he had to move around something he should have been able to walk past – chairs regular people sat at that he couldn’t fit in – aisles in stores – car seats – thank God for fat Americans because -

Luther breathes out through his nose, hard, stares at the gap. It’s not small. He imagines Diego or Klaus shuffling through with ease. Vanya or Five could do hopscotch.

He avoids thinking of Allison, because this means thinking about what she thinks about him and he just can’t.

Luther feels his shirt and pants stick to his skin. He breathes in, sucks his stomach back. It’s not enough. His legs rub at the fabric of his pants uncomfortably.

Luther sets the rake down and goes indoors.

“Mom,” he says, when he finds her. In the kitchen. Of course. “do you have a minute? I need you to talk to you about the food.”

“Of course, darling,” Grace says, sweeping around the table. “What can I make for you?”

“No, Mom, I need to know about the nutritional content,” Luther says. “I have a list of stuff to eat and need to know what’s got the most protein and calories.”

“Alright.” Mom sits down, smooths out her skirts. “Let me take a look.”

Luther hands her a pencil and a list he’s made based on his vague knowledge of food and how much fat and protein and _stuff_ it contains. She jots figures down in the spaces he’s left between food references.

When she slides the pad back over, he feels a sinking feeling. He’s had a feeling that he’s been eating too much. And that’s while he’s been eating less than he used to. He can’t think about it. He can’t believe what he used to get through in a day.

No. He’s going to be positive. He is. “Thanks Mom,” he says. “Okay I’ll cross out the things I can’t have. You’ll remember, right?”

“Of course, darling,” Grace says. “Why can’t you have them, dear?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Luther says, suddenly a little embarrassed. “Just, this is what I can eat, okay? It has to be this exact amount.”

“You’ll need to add a few extra mealtimes to your day if you want to be getting enough to keep you big and strong,” she says, suddenly sounding concerned, and, oh. Well.

Big and strong just… isn’t what he wants any more.

It’s still on his mind when he meets Five in Dad’s study later that evening. He stares at every gap, every space, and wonders how he could fit. Five is waiting for him, leaning back on Dad’s desk. He is lithe and strong looking and Luther feels a pang of awful, terrible envy. Five could fit anywhere. Luther has less choice.

“Interesting find,” Five is announcing, as Luther continues to contemplate on a loop how much he needs to stop eating and train more. “I wasn’t sure at first but I borrowed some hair. I hope you don’t mind.”

“What are you talking about?” Luther asks, thoughts derailed by sudden confusion.

“So,” Five says, and he looks kind of half anxious, half smug. “You won’t believe this.”

Luther braces himself automatically.

“We’re fraternal twins.”

Luther stares at him for a moment, trying to let that sink in. The first stupid thing he blurts is, “we don’t look anything alike?”

“Fraternal,” Five repeats. “Dizygotic. Two sperm cells, two eggs; I know you understand biology.”

Luther goes to the nearest chair and sits down. “Uh,” he says. “What?”

“I read about it in one of Dad’s journals a long time back but like I said. You can’t trust what you read.”

“So you...”

“Sent some of your hair out to a lab with mine? Yeah.”

Luther frowns. “Hang on...”

“Okay,” Five rolls his eyes. “Fine. I took a cheek swab. You were asleep, you didn’t even notice. I thought it was more important to find out for sure than cause you any unnecessary stress with the question.”

Luther… actually gets that. “Oh,” he nods, like this isn’t kind of mind blowing actually. “Dad knew?” He asks, again, even though he knows the obvious answer.

“Of course he did, he bought us,” Five tells him, no emotion seeping into his words. “You want to know what I want to know more?”

“Why he didn’t call us One and Two?” Luther hazards, even though it feels awful and wrong now he’s said it out loud. “Or Five and Six?” He tries, and no, still wrong.

“Exactly,” Five claps at him, looking pleased. “What the hell were those numbers for?”

AND IT’S LIKE TIME TRAVEL HELPS, BECAUSE.

Luther didn’t know, at the time.

Five tells him he needs answers, and leaves. He goes literally globe-hopping, leaving Luther alone, again, in a big empty house.

It’s not like he hasn’t survived exactly that before.

Luther does housework. Moves furniture. Works out.

Doesn’t eat.

He develops an aversion to the idea of weighing himself almost as soon as he thinks of it. He finds that he doesn’t actually even want to check his measurements, at all, in any way, because he is already a number, he’s already a number, he’s already just a fucking number.

It’s less than two months after they move out when Diego and Klaus arrive back in the hallway; what looks like all their things piled up when Luther makes it down the stairs. He was headed out to check the guttering.

“You’re back,” he says, somewhat stupidly.

“Not by choice,” Diego says, claps his shoulder hard as he walks by. Luther thinks Diego could probably kick his ass right now. He hasn’t felt 100% for a few weeks.

“Okay,” Luther says, and then follows them outside, to where they’re poking at the general disarray with something that looks strangely like glee. Luther hasn’t seen Diego look gleeful before. At least, not without a couple of knives involved. Even then, he usually looked mean.

They both look lighter somehow. Freer.

When he gets to asking what they’re doing here, which earns him an immediate change of expression, he finds out that they had no money, so they got kicked out of the basement they had all but tricked someone into letting them rent.

“Why don’t you two just move back here? This is free.” Luther is genuinely confused by them. It’s not a new occurrence, and it won’t be the last time, but this one is actually worse than usual.

“Give it a rest, Luther,” Diego snaps, as Klaus adds, snippily,

“Yeah we know you love being traumatized on the daily by our tragic antique laden past, but Two and Four have other needs.”

“Can you at least move your stuff out of the hallway? It’s blocking the front door.”

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” Diego sneers, “it’s not going to be there long. We’ll find something.” He looks around, breathes out heavily. “I do not know how you stand this place, golden boy,” he says.

“There’s a delivery for Mom tomorrow,” Luther starts, but Diego is gone in a shot, toward the house. Klaus is staring at him.

“You don’t have to lie about Mom to make him do stuff,” Klaus accuses.

“I’m not,” Luther says, taken aback.

“Okay,” Klaus seems to accept. “Hey,” he says, “you getting enough groceries in your big depressing mansion? You look like you’ve lost some weight.”

Oh. Good. Luther feels something like a good feeling for the first time in a while.

“Don’t worry about groceries,” he reassures Klaus, instead of addressing his favourite part of the sentence. “Mom is getting there. I think it used to be Pogo who took care of it.”

“Right,” Klaus says, picking a nail. “You know,” he says, “I’d say good riddance but I also kind of miss the bastard.”

Vanya killed him! Luther thinks, wildly. This isn’t normal. Nothing about them is normal. Jesus.

He swallows his feelings. “I’m sure Diego will let you talk to him you about it,” he tries, because they lived in a basement together, they haven’t killed each other, something must be working.

“Okay,” Klaus says, strangely short, “sorry to bother you,” and abruptly leaves.

BACKSTAGE.

Luther remembers everybody hating him at one point or another during their childhood. He remembers trying so, so, so hard to make things work like Dad told him he should, but on a rotating roster it felt his siblings absolutely did not want to hear him try to rally them all. He remembers the absolute dread fear that it was because actually he just wasn’t good enough. Because if he wasn’t good enough in the Hargreeves household, he stood no chance with the outside world.

He didn’t go out much besides missions, but he had a TV. He saw what the world was like. Luther was different. He recognized this early on.

Dad made it seem like it was something good; to be different.

Luther thinks back now and sees that Dad wanted him to feel different, a lot of the time. Different to the world they were training to somehow save. Different to his siblings.

Diego talked _differently_ than him for a long time, and Luther remembers being bizarrely jealous. It was proof that Diego was a discreet person, unique from the rest of them. Not just a template Dad had wanted. Mom gave him attention for it and it kind of defined him a little bit for a while, and even now he thinks if he spoke with Diego and heard a stutter – that’s what it’s called – he’d still be kind of jealous.

Diego is a person. He managed that all on his own, despite the Academy walls.

Luther feels like an automaton. He is what he was made to be, and he isn’t actually even good enough at that.

He’s ruminating on this while Klaus and Diego live back in the Academy.

They don’t live in their old rooms, he realizes once he has reason to walk down that corridor one day. There are, though, three beds in Ben’s old room, which Luther… he doesn’t want to deal with it right now, but it seems kind of. Distasteful.

He distracts himself with the gym, but he feels strange about his brothers knowing how much time he’s spending there. Like he should just appear to be potentially losing weight by some kind of accidental magic; reverting to a sensible size to match them through no effort, just being a body that’s naturally not an abomination like his serum infested -

No. He’s not doing this to himself. Not in his own _thoughts_, where he has some control.

So he avoids them most of the time, but they still run in to each other. Usually outdoors, where Luther is trying to (finally) clear the gutters, or weed the artistically laid stone pathways, or think about what you are supposed to do to turf to make it all green and even again once it’s gone yellow and hay-like.

Diego runs into him one day when he’s trying to work out where the bindweed infestation originates. It’s an ugly plant for all it’s nice white flowers, and he thinks the other plants would probably be better off without it. It’s too big. Takes up all the space it can.

“We’ll be out of your hair a-sap,” Diego tells him, a kind of drawl to his words Luther doesn’t remember. “No need to worry.”

He suddenly wonders if Diego drinks or does drugs with Klaus now. Probably not. Diego is as fit as anybody he has ever met, and he doesn’t seem the type. Still. Luther would never have figured Klaus would end up practically killing himself with the stuff, so. He thinks about whether or not he should worry.

“Are you both leaving?” He asks.

“Yeah bro,” Diego says, oddly cheerful, oddly open with him. “The Even Numbers apartment will rise again. Two, Four and Six. In the house.”

Luther’s stomach turns cold. “Right,” he says. “So. Did. Uh.”

He’d thought Diego seemed more relaxed than usual. And now he’s talking about Ben. It can’t be good.

“Look,” he says, then, thinking so hard about how to help. “Just because Klaus does it all the time doesn’t mean you have to turn to drugs, if you’re unhappy here-” and he’s thinking about all the times he’s heard Diego say he hates it at home, hates it, hates it, needs to leave, but Diego’s face turns strangely confrontational then, and he says,

“What the fuck? Klaus is clean. So shut it with your damn accusations… now you’re trying them on at me? _Me_? Do you even know me?” And he’s running a hand through his hair, while Luther looks on not knowing what to say. “I cannot fucking believe you, I’m actually starting to understand Klaus a little better believe it or not.”

What? “No, I’m not saying-”

“Save it, Luther,” Diego spits, now. “You’re a piece of work, honestly.”

Diego stalks back to the house, aggression in every line of his body.

Luther can’t figure out where he’s gone wrong; he just wanted to help, he wanted to reassure, he wanted to be there.

Their stuff is gone within a couple of hours, and Luther doesn’t see them around.

“Nobody listens to me,” he tells Allison, phone digging into his neck where he’s holding it while he tries to add the numbers on the sheet in front of him. Calories in vs calories out. It doesn’t seem right.

Allison says something he doesn’t really catch. He blinks, realizes that it was something like, “ha ha, Luther, maybe you should just talk louder.”

“I’m loud enough,” he says, but Allison doesn’t reply straight away in a way that means he probably just got that wrong. “Hey,” he changes the subject before he can feel like too much of an idiot. “Will the thing you’re in be on TV soon then?”

“Not for a few months,” Allison says straight away, and he’s in the clear. “I actually might have a second series of Call Girl Lawyer to start in between, though, my agent just got the call this morning.”

“That’s so great.” She’s not going to be home anytime soon then, Luther figures disappointed.

“You should visit sometime,” Allison says, then. “I could show you around. We could go out to dinner.”

Then it’s like a lead weight has suddenly arrived in his stomach. There will be no going to dinner, his mind informs him at a klaxon-like level of volume – trying to calm the sudden anxiety the suggestion provokes. This is all just talk.

“Yeah,” Luther replies, this is all just talk. There will be no going to dinner. “Yeah, that sounds great. I bet there’s loads of cool stuff to see in LA.”

Allison says something but it’s muffled. It sounds like she’s talking to someone else for a second. Then she comes back to the phone. “Luther I have to go, my agent just got here. It’s been great talking to you.”

“Okay,” he says, looking down at the numbers on his pad, frowning. “Take care.”

“Love you, bye.”

“Love you too,” he says, and hears the dial tone before he hangs up.

The numbers are just too… maybe he’s not estimating calories correctly. It’s a worrying thought.

Allison doesn’t come back, but Vanya does.

Vanya comes home.

Luther hears the phone ring but he can’t bring himself to get out of the repose he’s in on the couch, his exhaustion kind of ruining the idea. He’s thinking about toothpaste, and whether there are calories in it, because it’s something he’s never thought to wonder about and that stuff goes in his mouth and he swallows some of it probably, and would Mom know?

So he misses the phone call.

In hindsight it was probably Vanya, who turns up via taxi around 11pm the same night. Luther knows this because he watches out of an upstairs window with the lights turned off.

He doesn’t turn the lights on or go to greet her because he’s in the middle of an exercise routine and he can’t break it because. Well. He’s not sure. He can’t, though.

Better if she thinks he’s not here, or something.

Vanya opens the front door, walks around, shuts it, goes to one of the rooms downstairs.

Luther breathes, goes back to doing reverse crunches.

The next day he hears her on the phone from the hallway where he’s trying to sneak out to the gardens. He’s planning on pretending to be surprised to see her. He hears her telling somebody to visit, and he can’t think who she’s talking to because it sounds familiar and relaxed, and he sneaks out before he can get any particulars.

If he sits in a maintenance shed at the end of the garden for a while… well. Nobody found him. What was he to do.

No food occurs.

Luther counts off another day as a success on at least that front.

When he sees Diego pull up out of another side window – ducking quickly; his brother has always been observant – he thinks, _no way_ is that who Vanya called.

Then, thirty minutes later, he sees them both, out in the garden, ostensibly contemplating the view, and what does Luther know about anybody anymore.

Vanya and Diego don’t bear much in the way of physical resemblance but they look like siblings all the same, Luther thinks, as he walks out of the door to see them. He can’t hide forever.

Standing talking, they’re both slight – Diego has this sort of solidness about him, moves so deliberately. Vanya looks utterly comfortable in her own skin. Luther likes how they look. He feels the old ache of exclusion, wishes that he fit in correctly.

Tells his thoughts to shove it when he remembers Vanya’s book describing the same feeling about all of their powers.

The difference is, now, Vanya had powers all along. Luther’s probably always been a lumbering, awkward jerk. He just didn’t realize it before now.

When he finds them and they turn and look at him, Vanya’s mouth opens just a little bit. Diego stares. Luther frowns.

“Are you sick?” Diego asks, and Vanya gives him a look. “What?”

“No,” Luther shrugs. He’s a little chilly, now that he thinks about it. “I don’t think so,” he amends. “what happened to ‘hello’?” And that gets Diego’s back up like he wanted, but Vanya doesn’t look away.

“Thanks for the constructive criticism,” Diego is saying. “I’ll take it on board.”

“Diego,” Vanya says, but just puts a hand on his arm. Weirdly, his brother doesn’t react the way he’s expecting.

“No, Van,” Diego says, and the nickname is new. “I’m sick of this. I can’t do anything right around this guy. This was my house too, asshole,” he directs at Luther, “even if I hated it I have as much of a right to be here as you; you don’t get to act like this. And while we’re at it,” he barrels on, unusually loquacious Luther thinks tiredly, “leave the fuck off of Klaus. Just because we’re not as perfect as you seem to think you are doesn’t mean you can just treat us all like shit.”

“I don’t,” Luther tries, latching on to the part of the sentence that made sense, because none of the rest of it is working in his brain, “I’m not perfect,” he says, and Diego rolls his eyes.

“Yes, Luther, you are,” he snaps.

“Guys,” Vanya says, sharp, before either or them can say anything else. She has a hand on Diego’s arm, and he isn’t looking at either of them suddenly.

“I have to go,” Diego bites out, short, and just leaves, stalks back toward the house.

Vanya looks after him, looking conflicted as she looks back at Luther. Then her eyes flick up and down his body, and he feels abruptly judged. “Are you okay?” Vanya asks, relatively delicately.

“Fine,” Luther tries not to snap back, because he really was tired before, he realizes, and now he’s just heading to exhausted. He knows he won’t sleep if he tries, a strange kind of restlessness has got into his bones recently.

He should have stayed in the gym.

He could just be the eyesore brother, locked in the house forever, never coming outside and being told about how much everybody else thinks he sucks. After finding out Dad sent him to the moon because he just couldn’t stand the sight of him, Luther doesn’t think anything any of them have to spit at him will be quite as bad ever again.

Some knowledge is just life altering like that. Nothing Diego says makes sense on the best of days, now that they’re adults, and Luther has no idea where to even start amending that.

“Luther,” Vanya says, and oh, she’d been talking.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I… wasn’t listening.”

“I can see that,” she says, but she sounds more worried than cross. “Where’s Five? I haven’t seen him around.”

Luther shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, honestly. “He went looking for something.” He doesn’t disclose Five’s find about their heritage. He doesn’t want to hear the disbelief, any comparisons of their physicality.

“Okaaay,” Vanya says, looking him up and down again. Luther crosses his arms. Thinks it makes him feel a little less chilly at least. “Did you have lunch, yet?” She asks out of nowhere.

“Uh,” Luther tries to think of something to answer that with. “I don’t know,” is the first stupid thing he blurts, which makes her frown.

“You don’t know if you ate lunch?”

“No, I.” Crap. He hadn’t thought about this. Nobody else has been around for a while now. “Mom makes my food. She. I ate yesterday.” He did, which is why he’s not eating today.

Vanya blinks, and then looks like she thinks she understands something. “Oh, Luther,” she says, “you’re thirty-one. I mean, in a seventeen year old body, but still.” She hugs herself. “You can make your own food when Mom doesn’t. I’ll have a look for Pogo’s notes if she isn’t operating right about meal times. Do you want me to make you something?”

“No,” Luther says – possibly a little too strong – to every part of that sentence.

“Right,” says Vanya, lightly. “Okay. Well, I’ll just get on to that. Maybe lay off Diego a little next time you two speak. He’s trying to work through some issues and you guys should be civil with each other if you can’t stand to just be nice.”

“Okay,” Luther says, and then, “what issues?”

“Alright,” Vanya says, “now _I_ have to go. See you.” And she turns and leaves like Diego did, albeit not as fast and with a couple of half-look backs where their eyes don’t meet.

THE MIDDLE OF THE STORY.

Luther remembered it strangely, like he would remember a dream or a particularly vivid thought. He had been trying to be more quiet, having lived with just the sound of his own footsteps for months. He had experienced a brief moment of elation when he rounded a corner and heard voices that didn’t cease in their rapid fire exchange for his approach. He was never really one to spy, but he had always wondered what they talked about when he wasn’t around. And he had wondered about how Diego and Vanya spoke to each other that day, and he was there, and he could hear them, and they hadn’t stopped so why not.

“I can’t say fucking anything, Vanya, anything I do gets criticized, don’t ask me to give him a break.” Diego had said, sounding more stressed than he had in front of Luther.

“I’m not asking that,” Vanya had replied, voice steady. “Look. You know you two have had a turbulent history.” Diego had snorted at that point. Vanya just continued, “but Luther probably has his own issues too. Did you know he doesn’t eat food unless Mom makes it? That’s basically what he said outside.” Oh.

“Spoiled asshole,” Diego had commented, at that, sounding even more upset. Luther felt nauseated.

“No,” Vanya continued, “think about it. Mom’s clearly not been feeding him. He’s being starved in his own house and he won’t even make food for himself.”

“Why should I give a shit,” Diego had snapped. “Last time I was here he asked if Klaus was giving me drugs. Me! How do I interpret that other than he doesn’t give two shits, how else am I supposed to deal with the fact that the guy who says he’s my brother doesn’t know I’d rather cut off my arm than use that shit.”

“Just try and be nice to each other,” Vanya had said, comfortingly. And then, “look how well that’s worked for you and Klaus.”

“Klaus spent twenty minutes screaming at me for not loading the dishwasher right this morning,” was Diego’s response.

“And you two spent last night cuddling each other like babies in front of the TV.” Luther had tried to imagine that and failed immediately.

“I hit him to make him shut up and he started throwing all the shoes he could find at me.” Luther had imagined this _much_ more easily.

“When you go home he’s going to be in the bath and you’re going to bring him tea,” said Vanya, confidently.

“No I won’t, how the hell do you know that?”

“Then you’re going to sit and talk to him about your feelings and Luther and me, and then he’s going to cook something to cheer you up. Klaus and me do talk, Diego. I think it’s great.”

“It’s weird.”

“It is. But we’re all kind of fucked up. Including Luther.” And then Luther couldn’t listen any more at that point, and he tried very hard to be quiet in his retreat because he didn’t think that he could bear it if either of them found out that he’d heard.

A little while later he had found himself in the kitchen, in front of the open fridge.

There was a shelf with a bowl of freshly chopped carrot sticks.

Luther usually avoided the fridge and he wasn’t sure where that had come from, or what would happen to it if he just left it.

It seemed easy enough. He reached out, slowly, for the bowl.

If he touched the carrot, it would have been as bad as putting it in his mouth. If he touched it he would have failed. Everything would have been wrong. Luther had known this, right then, with absolute certainty.

He stepped back from the fridge, closed the door. And then he had gone upstairs, drank two pints of water or so direct from the tap because that was all that was safe and his stomach hurt.

And then Luther exercised until he saw stars, which wasn’t actually too long later, and then he lay down in the corner of the gym and thought about the conversation he had overhead that day over, and over, and over.

He did the same thing every time he woke up for the next few days.

The phone rang, sometimes.

Luther ignored it.

He left the lights off, and prayed for no more visitors.

PRESENT TENSE.

Voices float up the stairs.

Luther is in the gym, in the dark, where he’s been for… a while.

“I still can’t believe you just left him,” and that’s Vanya, for some reason. She won’t come up this far.

“I still can’t believe how dramatic you’re being,” Five’s voice returns, and Luther doesn’t know what to think about that, wasn’t expecting it.

“Don’t accuse me of being dramatic,” Vanya’s voice sounds, getting closer. Shit.

“Apologies,” Five says.

“I’m not kidding. You won’t even tell me why you left.”

“Because I didn’t find out what I wanted to.”

“You’re so full of shit.”

They’re right outside now. Why the hell are they right outside? Luther stays where he is, curled in the corner, in the dark, head against a wall.

“I’m full of shit?” Five says, sounding amused.

“He’s not here,” Vanya sounds frustrated. Luther wonders who they’re looking for.

“Luther,” Five bellows, suddenly, and he jumps a mile.

The light comes on. His brother – his fraternal twin brother, Luther thinks – is standing in the doorway looking his way with an increasingly blank expression. Luther isn’t sure if he’s supposed to say something.

“Found him,” Five says, tonelessly.

Vanya comes in, looks at him, and, for some reason, walks straight back out.

“Fix this,” she hisses at Five, and Luther thinks he can hear her walking away.

“Right,” Five says, as she goes. “Sure.”

Luther is tired. He looks back at the wall. “Did you want something?” He asks, unable to look at Five too long. The jealousy feels awful, and he doesn’t resent Five or anything stupid like that but he just. They’re twins. If that’s true then… how the hell did Luther end up like _this_?

Two bony knees appear in front of his face. Five sits down, crisscross legs, right in front of him. Peers at him intently. Like normal, really.

“What’s going on, Luther?” Five asks, kind of gently.

“I’m going to bed,” Luther says, and goes to stand. He’s being too abrupt though, and his vision doubles and he sways and grabs the wall.

Five stands and steadies him. “Right,” he says. “Can I test your blood sugar?”

“What for,” Luther says, annoyed at himself.

“You don’t look very steady,” Five says, and, huh, Luther would have expected him to phrase that as more of an insult in hindsight.

“It’s late,” he says, because it’s true. “I’m just tired.”

“Why were you sitting in the dark?” Five moves on to, at that.

“I.” Luther can’t think of anything, actually. “When did you get back?” He tries to change the subject. “What did you find?”

“Nothing,” says Five. “What did you eat today?”

Nothing, Luther wants to tell him, but that’s not comfortable. “I think I just need some water,” he says, instead, because that makes headaches go away, right?

“You look more like you need an IV line and somebody to knock you out,” Five returns, and Luther stares at him. “How did you lose this much weight in a few months? Because that’s how long I’ve been gone, Luther. You look like you’ve lost a good thirty pounds.”

“I don’t weigh myself,” Luther says, but feels something mean and nasty unfurl in his chest at this news. You’re doing something right, it’s telling him. Even Five is impressed. “I mean. I don’t know. Look I just need some rest-”

“Okay,” Five interrupts, and grabs his sleeve, doesn’t touch any skin. “Come with me. You’re probably feeling confused and out of it. I’ll bet you have one hell of a headache. I’ll take you to the infirmary and start running some basic tests, see if I can figure out what’s wrong.”

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong,” Luther tries, but Five steamrollers on with,

“Yeah that’s the malnutrition talking. It does interesting things to the brain.” And then before he knows it, he’s been dragged into the room where he woke up and found out that he wasn’t dead, but Dad had done something else to him instead – and he can’t think about it. Five pulls him toward a set of standing scales.

Luther looks at them.

Five walks around, collects various things – a notepad, a stethoscope. When he comes back he looks at Luther like he’s behaving strangely. “Get on,” he gestures to the scales, with the dial and the numbers, all the numbers waiting to tell him who Five thinks Luther is now that he has a way to measure, to prove it -

“Uh, no,” Luther hears himself saying. “Look. I just need a rest.” He backs away, watches Five look even more confused.

“It’s fine, you’re just sick, we should see what we’re dealing with -”

“No.”

He’s moving faster than he thought he would have been able to, running down the stairs and back toward… he doesn’t know.

Five appears in front of him in a flash of blue. Goddammit.

“What’s the problem,” Five says, evenly.

Luther can’t look at him. Nobody has been this direct with him since he started this venture and he doesn’t know how to deal with it, and every single one of his instincts is telling him to lie or misdirect but he knows that’s wrong, immoral and shouldn’t be necessary, and why is he so ashamed of this all of a sudden? It’s just fucking food.

“Look I know I haven’t. I wasn’t. Taking care of myself, I guess,” he thinks back to just eating whatever Mom put in front of him, blindly. “I’m trying to fix it. I just. Don’t want to stand on the scales. I don’t want to know.”

Five looks marginally suspicious, but then again he often does. Luther is trying to be honest, he thinks he deserves something for that.

“So you know there’s a problem, here,” Five says, and wow, okay. Yes, Luther knows there’s a problem. Yes, Luther is going to try and exercise it away. Yes Luther is done just mindlessly consuming food he clearly, so clearly now, sees he doesn’t need. It still stings, but at least they’re being open now. At least it’s out in the open.

“Can we not talk about it?” He begs, miserably. “I swear I am doing my absolute best. It was worse, I think. I get it. I know what I… look like,” he stops, abruptly, a lump in his throat.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” Five says, soft. “Not about that. You just, it was a surprise, that was all. You mean it, you swear you’re fixing it?”

“Yes,” Luther says, means it with every bone in his body. “I am.”

“You could never lie,” Five says, grins a little. “Great. Look, kid, if you need anything, I’m here, okay? I know you don’t want to weigh yourself, but I’m worried about your blood sugar. If it’s not visibly better in a week or so or the tremor doesn’t stop,” oh, his hands, they do shake a lot now, “then I’m not taking no for an answer. We need you healthy.”

“I’ll make it happen,” Luther says, planning on doing as much exercise as he can lying down, because standing is hard again.

“Don’t go to the gym until you’re feeling better,” Five says, suddenly serious. “I know it’s an old habit, but you push yourself too hard like this and it’s only going to make things worse.”

“No gym,” says Luther, swallowing thickly. “Got it.”

He does crunches, side crunches, planks, leg raises, graduates to two legged squats because he can’t manage one legged any more – probably out of practice. He does all this quietly, in his bedroom, because Five said he should try harder but not in the gym but Luther can’t tell Five that he’s already eating nothing so exercise is the only thing that’s going to work.

In between, he sleeps. Badly. A lot.

Five drops in on him a couple of days later while he’s curled up under the comforter, trying to forget a dream about a ship made of bread, trying to ease the cramps in his calves.

“Hey,” Five sticks his head around the door. “Are you still asleep? It’s two in the afternoon.”

“Oh,” Luther says, pinching the aching muscles. “Sorry. Do you need me for anything?”

“No,” Five says. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” Luther tells him. “Tired.”

“Can I bring you anything? How’s your stomach?”

“Uh. I guess I feel a little sick. Maybe. It’s hard to tell.” He feels like bile is churning a hole in his gut, but Five probably doesn’t need to know that. “I’ll drink some water. See if it settles.”

“I’ll get it,” Five says, and flashes away for a moment before he’s back with a high ball glass, three quarters full. It’s not the quantity he usually drinks, but he reaches for it and downs it in one anyway.

“Thirsty?” Five says, eyebrow raised.

Luther shrugs, snuggles back down.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Five says, “if you’ve got nothing to do this evening we could spend some time talking over theories about numbers?”

“Yeah,” Luther says, “sure.”

When he wakes up next, it’s 11pm.

He needs a pint glass. He goes down to the kitchen to get one. The lights are on and Five is at the table, scribbling in a notepad, surrounded by bits of paper.

“Hey,” he says without looking up.

“Hey,” Luther returns, goes to the cupboard over the sink. Fishes out a glass. Fills it up. Drinks most of it. Fills it again.

He hears Five move to the fridge, open it. Wills himself not to look inside, because it feels kind of like if he does he won’t be able to stop himself from eating the entire thing. He’s beyond hungry.

“Look,” Five says, and Luther turns obediently anyway, and Five is holding out a cup filled with red jelly. “Electrolyte jelly. Full of glucose, vitamins and good stuff. It’s for chemo patients. Shouldn’t upset your stomach.” He holds the cup out. “Try one, see if it helps?”

Helps what? Luther takes an involuntary step back. Helps with what? Oh, Jesus.

“I… can’t,” he manages.

“No seriously,” Five grabs a spoon, shoves it in the cup, holds it back out to Luther. “Just try one. They’re tiny too so you could just…” he trails off. Seems to take in the way Luther is holding himself tense. Looks him up and down again. He’s too freaked about the jelly to care right now, but in five minutes Luther knows he’s going to be exercising thinking about that look.

Five breathes out for a long moment, and then says, very, _very_ evenly; “you’re doing this to yourself.”

Which doesn’t make sense.

“Oh my God, Vanya was wrong. You’re actually doing this to yourself.”

Luther feels heavy, miserable. Like he’s taking up far, far, far too much space. Five’s stare feels like a physical weight on his head.

“I thought...” Five trails off, then. “This is so much worse,” he continues, after a minute. “Luther this is bad. This is really bad. Fuck,” Five says, instead of explaining more. “Okay. I need to rethink everything. I really need to get you on the scale.”

“No,” Luther finds his voice. “Not happening.”

“Absolutely happening,” Five tells him. “How long has this been going on for? I know that eating disorders don’t always have visible symptoms at first; is this new or have you been maintaining weight with one for God knows how long?”

Oh. “I don’t have an eating disorder, Five,” Luther wants to laugh suddenly, hysterically. God. If only, he thinks. Things might be easier.

“Uh.” Five stares at him. “Eat this then,” he says.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want it.”

“Drink something then. OJ. Want some?”

“Stop it,” Luther snaps. He hasn’t touched anything with pointless calories since realising that he was grossly… grossly…

Five raises his eyebrows.

Shit.

“It’s not.” Luther scrubs a hand through his hair, doesn’t know what to say. “I’m not doing anything. I don’t have an… eating disorder.”

“If you’d let me weigh you I could probably tell you for certain that you’re down a good five more pounds just this week.”

“I don’t.” Luther stops, basks in the glee of the nasty little thing in his chest. It’s all that matters, somehow, everything else hurts and sucks and he’s so tired of hating himself that feeling something good is a relief. He breathes out, tries again. “I don’t have an eating disorder. Stop looking for problems.”

“Nice try,” Five says, immediately.

“You need something to fix. You said so yourself; even Vanya thinks you’re addicted to the-”

“Nope,” Five interrupts. “I’m fifty eight, kid. I didn’t get this far in life by letting my emotions override my rationality. You. Have. An. Eating disorder.”

Luther stares at him.

“It’s probably scary. I’ve read that it’s terrifying, actually. And I guess I understand; we all of us have the capacity to self destruct.”

Luther feels sweaty, for all that he’s cold.

“You’re just doing what you usually do and being way too good at it.”

“Shut up,” he says, and hugs himself harder. “Shut up, Five. You don’t know anything.”

Five sits back down in a chair, sets the jelly cup next to him. “Fuck,” he says. “What the fuck are we going to do about this?”

Luther turns to leave. He realizes he’s left his pint glass. He wanted a pint glass, that was the whole point of the venture downstairs. He wants it. He can’t go back in because Five is there and he might keep talking. Luther backs up against the nearest wall, slides down it and hides his face in his hands, because it’s dark and he’s tired and he can’t think properly and all he knows is that there’s far too much of him and he thought Five agreed, was on his side.

“Hey,” says his brother’s voice, and Luther wants to leave, but doesn’t have the energy. “I’m not going to attack you or make you eat or do anything scary,” he says, kind of weirdly soft. “What did you come downstairs for?”

A few breaths later, Luther manages, “I just need a big glass.”

“For water?” Five asks, and Luther nods a bit. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll get you one. Do you want water?”

Luther shakes his head, because for all he knows Five is going to put something in it now. Something that will make him ape-like and huge.

“Alright, alright.” Five sounds kind of upset, which is weird. “Listen, I think I need to sort a couple of things out. Have you ever been to see the ocean?”

Luther doesn’t care about the fucking ocean. He ignores Five, thinks of nothing.

By the time it’s quiet again, and he needs to use the bathroom at that, when he raises his head, his brother is still there. Just sitting across from him.

“I’m not leaving you again,” Five says. “I get it. We’re the same. Biology now proves that. We get obsessed. We have to be the best. You just picked this to be great at for a bit.”

Luther stares at him.

“Do you want me to get you upstairs? I appreciate that there isn’t much I can change in one day, so I’m not going to make you eat right now or anything like that.”

“Sure,” Luther manages.

Five zaps him to his room. There’s a bathroom nearby, thank God.

“If you feel any weird palpitations or anything,” Five’s hand indicates his own heart, “then you have to tell me straight away. I’ll just put the AED or something on you to measure your ECG. It’s probably a real risk right now. Not that you’re going to care.”

Luther doesn’t.

Five isn’t there. Luther doesn’t sleep. He exercises.

The phone rings and rings. Luther ignores it.

It’s been a couple of days, he thinks. He’s in the kitchen looking at his glass of water. He feels strange.

Footsteps sweep through the house and he wonders if he’s imagining it. Wonders if this is how Klaus feels.

“Hey,” comes a tentative voice, and when he finally turns around he’s confused as hell to see Diego of all people.

“What do you need?” Luther asks, automatic. He drains his water down the sink.

Diego stalks up to him. He just keeps eye contact, rather than looking anywhere else, which Luther hadn’t realized he would appreciate so much.

“You need to get out of here,” Diego says, steadily. “Please don’t argue with me,” he adds, just as Luther goes to ask why, confused. The response annoys him.

“I don’t think I do,” he tells Diego, frowning.

“I think you do,” his brother counters. His tone has changed, that self-sure cadence that Luther can’t stand sometimes.

“Oh. You’re an expert on me now,” Luther says, immediately regretting it, wanting to shrink away, wanting to not exist. Diego could fucking destroy him, the way he feels right now, he knows. Diego always could. He can’t stand up to it any more.

“You need to get out of this house, it is _killing you_,” Diego tells him, moving forward suddenly, right up in his face, and Luther stares at the look in his brother’s eyes, sets his jaw, wishes he’d worn a looser shirt today because it keeps pulling across his shoulders and he can’t not eat them away, that’s basically just his bones and he hates it.

“Luther, look. At. Me,” Diego snaps, and Luther suddenly can’t do this.

“Get out.”

“Give up.”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh,” Diego says, “good. Big boy words. Come on, come at me. You want to do this? You want to play like you’re not trying to _kill yourself_, Luther? Want me to play like I’m going to just let you?”

“Do you know what?” Luther says, because this is what he’s going to do, he’s going to do what Diego always does to him. He is going to just _give up_, and he’s going to be a straight up dick to his brother. “I don’t know what the hell your problem is,” he says. “I get that you like to go on and on about how hard you had it, how mean and nasty Dad was to everybody but me, who according to you has had the easiest life. Being Dad’s ‘favorite’ just because I’m the only one who never left. Never ran away like a little kid. Tried to do what was right instead of just bailing because I decided my life was too hard. Why the hell do you insist on telling everybody I had it so good? Do you hate me that much?”

Diego doesn’t move, doesn’t look away, and Luther’s on a roll now and it just comes spilling out of him.

“Because I hate _you_,” he says, “I hate you. You got to leave. I got to stay on the moon for four years, as _punishment_ because I got given some experimental serum when I’d rather have just _died_. You left me,” his voice cracks, “you all left me and now you’re here for what, to gloat some more? To tell me I’m wrong for wanting to just be at home and get some fucking peace for the first time in years? In my life?”

Diego’s face is screwed up and he’s nodding, and Luther has no idea what that means. And then Diego nods some more and his hands are up on Luther’s neck which he hates, and he assumes he’s going to be hit but Diego just holds them there, looking torn up. “You stupid asshole,” Diego says, so quietly he almost misses it and Luther stares at him because he’s actually crying. Luther’s crying. Diego’s crying. What an absolute shit show of a mess they are making. “I -I -I,” Diego starts, and stutters over it a few times before he stops and breathes out through his nose. Luther wants to tell him where to shove it, and doesn’t know what to do with his hands, and then Diego tries again.

“I love you,” Diego says, and for some reason that makes Luther cry that much harder. He can’t look, so he screws up his eyes. Turns his hands into fists. “I do and you need to come with me, just come with me.” Luther feels his brother move in and gather him up in a hug, and there’s a hand running up and down his back and he doesn’t really like it and he definitely can’t deal with it but he also can’t move away. “Just get in the car. We can come back, it’s not for forever.” A sigh. “I straight up wish I could just take some of this pain out of you. Make it so you could just hurt me. Don’t hurt yourself. I can’t stand watching you hurt yourself so much.”

“Holy shit,” breathes a new voice, “oh thank God. Is this what I think it is?”

“Fuck off, Five,” Diego says, no heat whatsoever. His hand is still on Luther’s back, and now Luther can’t move because if he does then Five will really be seeing him like this and he just can’t deal with that right now.

“Really?” Five says  
  
“No,” Diego says again. “Please don’t. There’s too much hurt here as it is.” 

“I got us some fake IDs,” Five says, out of nowhere.

“Klaus already-”

“New ones,” Five says. “And a place. We just have to drive out there.”

Luther passes out in the back of the car. He doesn’t remember much of the journey, thinks he has weird dreams about a brief stop at a hospital where people say strange things and he gets pricked with needles and then his brothers do some strange backhanded maneuvers to run away without paying for anything.

When he wakes up in a clean blue room, he panics. He doesn’t know what he’s eaten or not, he doesn’t know whether he’s exercised enough or not. He doesn’t know.

Strange thing of the strange things – he thinks he’s dreaming because it’s Klaus he imagines sauntering in, a teapot in one hand and two cups in another. Klaus propping him up in bed, giving him tea that has no calories, so they will both stay nice and thin, although Luther is apparently winning on that front right now. Klaus not touching him like Diego did, thank God, but when they finish their tea reading to him from a book about some ridiculous semi-racist girls at a boarding school in England.

“They’re on the coast, like us!” Klaus says, finishing up his chapter.

He wakes up in pain.

He’s back in a hospital, only this time he thinks it’s real.

There’s something in his nose, and it hurts.

“Easy honey,” someone says, as he struggles. “Woke you up with the blood pressure monitor. Don’t worry.”

He’s so weak. Luther looks at the straps holding his arms down. He should be able to break through them with no problem whatsoever.

He can’t even make a stitch snap.

The next time he’s delivered liquid food for the _feeding__ tube_ in his nose, he takes it orally, if only to get the damn thing taken out.

Luther spends more time in the hospital than he wants to think about. His siblings don’t visit.

He starts drinking his Ensures as a meal replacement, because they’re easy, not solid, and it’s a hospital and they wouldn’t be trying to hurt him. He prefers drinking the calorie laden ‘punishment’ portions he gets for not eating solid food to trying to eat the solid food, and people make pleased noises about his ‘progress’ and concerned noises about his ‘trauma’ and subsequent inability to participate in the therapy groups or group meals.

Luther only cares about getting out. He pulls at straps on beds as he passes, tests his strength.

The day Luther can break out of one, he steals his brothers contact number from the administrative files.

He’s not staying. Five can find him out on a road somewhere.

Luther leaves through a window, tells Five to burn the phone.

MUCH, MUCH LATER.

Klaus plops down next to him on the couch. “Hey,” Klaus says, looking at Luther rather than at the sunset he’s been quietly admiring as it progresses down over the waves.

Luther sighs. “Hey,” he answers.

“Can I show you something mad cool?” Klaus asks, head tipped back on the backrest. “I’m not so good at it yet but I wanted to tell someone.”

“So you picked me?” Luther frowns.

“Well, yeah,” Klaus frowns back. “Anyway.” He whips a playing card out of one sleeve, like he’s been stashing it for a magic trick. “Alright,” he says, holding it delicately in front of them. “Just...” and then he’s letting it go, very, very slowly. It isn’t falling out of the air.

Luther stares.

“When...” he begins, trails off. He doesn’t want to breathe too hard in case he makes it fall.

After a moment, Klaus opens his hand and the card slowly makes its way back into his grip.

Then, in contrast to the stillness and concentration just displayed, he bounces excitedly in his seat. “Right?” He says looking at Luther.

“Holy… wow,” Luther says. “What did Diego say? Have you shown Five?”

“No, just you, just you,” Klaus says, looking thrilled. “I haven’t shown anybody else. It’s not really any good yet. I think it will be.”

“It’s amazing,” Luther says. “Well done.”

“Thanks, oh fearless leader,” Klaus beams, “I’m going to practice it a bit every day. See what happens. If I get up to something heavy like a rock or something I’ll let you know.”

“You didn’t tell Diego?” Luther says, again, because he’s surprised.

“Oh, no, we’re having a fight,” Klaus waves an arm like it’s nothing. “He’ll be very sorry when he realizes he has no other friends that know all the words to every Pet Shop Boys album ever recorded.”

Luther frowns again.

“Oh don’t fret,” Klaus waves a hand at him. “This is your vacation, you’re not supposed to fret. Five picked this place especially.”

“So that we’d have somewhere to hide out after I broke out of the rehab place,” Luther intones, still wondering how the hell Five guessed that would happen.

“Absolutely,” Klaus says. “You and me are in an exclusive club now. I’d have a celebratory drink with you but those things are disgusting, I don’t know why you like them,” he says, poking toward the empty vanilla meal replacement shake Luther spent an hour sipping through a little earlier. Five buys them by the crate-load for him. It’s working out okay, according to Five, who doesn’t weigh him like they had at the in-patient clinic but watches him like a hawk. His head doesn’t hurt so much and his clothes fit a little better.

“I’ll drink your tea,” Luther tells him. Klaus looks pleased and happy at that, and Luther feels the edge of his mouth turn up a little.

“Seriously though,” Klaus says. “If you don’t want me to talk about it I won’t. But you look good. You’re nearly as big as Five now, that scrawny little midget.”

Luther’s good mood vanishes. “Right,” he says, because he feels awkward, can’t think of a nice way to say don’t ever talk to me about what I look like compared to Five, please, without sounding pathetic and disgusting.

“Oh cool, I did put my foot in it,” Klaus says, sounding strange. “Go me. Okay. You want me to go get Five? You two can do some calming, uh. Science and math.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Luther snaps, not really meaning to. Klaus stands at that, hands out in front of him.

“Hey,” he says. “I’m sorry. I won’t bring it up again.”

Luther looks away, looks outside, just doesn’t know what to say or do to make this any better. He swallows, thinks about his shake.

A little while later another brother flops down next to him with the bonelessness of a man used to being middle aged who has been given back the body of a teenager.

“Hey twin,” Five says. Luther frowns and looks at him.

“Klaus-” he starts, meaning to ask how to deal with this. Five is good at these problems. Or, rather, he’s good at making Luther feel like his problems aren’t actually big problems, meaning that he doesn’t have to spend time worrying on them.

“No, forget Klaus. I lied to you,” Five says, and it’s kind of serious.

“About what?” Luther asks, clipped.

“One and two, five and six,” Five says. “Us.”

Luther feels the beginnings of a strange sort of panic, and Five notices because he backtracks.

“Not about us,” he says, gesturing between them. “We're fraternal twins for sure. I meant about Dad’s quaint little numbering system.”

“What are you talking about?” Luther asks, feeling a tad on edge at the entire conversation now.

“Alright; So I thought that there must have been some logic or meaning in it. We would have been ordered by minute born, or where he ranked our abilities, or, I don’t know, skull circumference at nine weeks or something,” Five says. “I looked around, I raided archives, I read newspapers, I stole birth certificates. I ran a bunch of math and I theorized for so many scenarios that when I finally found the answer, I knew it had to be true.”

“You said you lied,” Luther says, unsure.

“I said I didn’t find the answer. I found it. Do you know what that crazy bastard did?” Five asks, a wry smirk on his face.

Luther shakes his head.

“Picture this. He goes out. Offers a large amount of people a large amount of money for their new born babies. He gets seven of us; seven of us whose parents either didn’t want us or didn’t care or needed that cash more than they needed another mouth to feed, whatever. And he brings us to America, and he brings us to the Academy, and he just.” Five mimics pointing at seven things, boop, boop, boop, boop, boop, boop, boop.

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven,” Five says, airily. “That's exactly how much of a shit he gave about us as people. It’s arbitrary. It’s so arbitrary that he didn’t even put the damn twins in the right order. I’m older than you, by the way.”

“No,” Luther breathes, chest tight with something.

“Yes. Four minutes,” Five says, looking smug as ever.

“No, I mean… that can’t be it.”

“It is. Swear to God. Swear on my life. Swear on physics. I don’t know, pick something that means something to you for me to swear on. That’s the truth. That man gave literally no shits.”

“No,” Luther breathes, feeling dizzy.

“Take the pressure off, much?” Five says, rolling his head around. “I’m glad for keeping ‘Five’ all the more, now. Means nothing. Which is exactly what I meant to Dad.” He twists his fingers in his lap.

“You’re the only other living soul who knows,” Five tells him, after a minute. “I don’t know how the others would take it.”

Luther realizes he’s crying.

All this time.

All his life.

Fucking, fucking fuck.

He can have a melt-down about it later.

He sighs, looks back at the view. “Thanks,” he says to Five.

Five looks at him, zaps away. Returns with one of his meal replacement drinks and a straw, and something alcoholic, a minute later.

“Cheers,” Five says, glasses never touching.

It’s a lovely and calm and nice day and the boys are on sunbeds on the deck. Luther leans back and sips at his tea, enjoys the warmth through his sweater.

“You’re so pale I can see all your veins,” Diego remarks to his left, to Klaus who he is peering all over. “Look at them all.”

“Yes, yes, admire my prominent vasculature. That used to come in so handy,” Klaus sighs, looking wistful.

“I bet,” Five grumbles, from Luther’s other side.

“Come on man,” Diego says, a little snappishly. “We don’t need to hear that shit.”

“Guys,” Luther says, warning tone.

It’s quiet for a moment, and then Diego says, kind of confused sounding, “they’re seriously everywhere though,” and Five says,

“I mean, you’re probably only noticing because Klaus is pretending to be allergic to clothes today,” and Diego is saying,

“You have veiny _ankles_, man,” and Klaus says,

“You can shoot up into your ankles,” and Luther pulls his straw hat down over his face and so he just hears a slap, and a “fucker!” and the beginnings of a scuffle to his left.

A slurping sound to his right has him peeking. Five raises his eyebrows like, get a load of these fools; slurps noisily through his paper straw.

“Get off of me,” Diego is saying,

“No, you wanted touching, you kept hitting me, stop hitting yourself-” Klaus is grinding out, and it sounds like Diego’s making him work for it.

Luther raises his eyebrows at Five like, do I bother?

Five shrugs one shoulder.

Luther hears a crash, sighs, takes the hat off his face.

Diego is sitting on Klaus on the decking, hands up behind his back like he’s going to be cuffed. “You’re under arrest for being really fucking annoying,” Diego monotones. “You have the right to - oof,” he’s cut off by a surprise move from Klaus, who cackles and then starts to sprint away.  
  
“That was way too practised,” Luther comments, as Diego gets up and takes off after him. 

“How the hell did they live together? Just the two of them? Neither of them is _dead_ from it?” Five wonders aloud.

Luther shrugs. He doesn’t see the harm in their constant bickering, really. Nobody is really getting hurt, and he’s caught Diego sitting on Klaus more than once with his hands over Klaus’ ears and Klaus’ eyes screwed shut, so he thinks they’re just comfortable in each other’s physical space.

This is how he knows for sure that he’s twinned with Five. Neither of them have that innate need for touching thing that their other brothers do.

He lies back under the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> The Hargreeves catch on faster and do a lot better than a lot of families, so fucking go team. Also I couldn't bear to have that stupid "just eat something" argument hence everybody is at least vaguely educated on the subject. Tenses are wildly out of control because when you don't eat, you get fucking weird, sorry. IDK if this is even slightly in character, and the ED is super in character so that was easy to write (HAHAHA THE EATING DISORDER IS A CHARACTER, IT LITERALLY EATS PERSONALITIES... I'm calm) but Luther... eh. I don't know.


End file.
